


Chain Reaction

by Fiona_Crescent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alchemy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:30:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiona_Crescent/pseuds/Fiona_Crescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Newton’s alchemic research had yielded results, and instead we had a decline in the study of the laws of physics and alchemy became our base for understanding the universe? Introducing Sherlock as a leader of alchemic research.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain Reaction

Lead into gold. That was everyone’s dream. It was always something trivial like money or power, and as power couldn’t be transmuted, gold was the ultimate quest. Sherlock saw it every day, transmutation circles splayed across hansoms or in shop windows advertising the perfect combination for a small fee. How could people not understand that if those companies were looking for a down payment then the combination advertised was also going to be fraudulent? People could be so vacant sometimes.

Sherlock was a gifted alchemist, one that had proven himself to have a natural ability when it came to deducing the components of any object through sight and touch alone. Often, he was praised as the new Newton, the father of modern alchemy, and had won many awards for his work in the alchemic field. Not that he really cared; the one thing that mattered to him, the only thing that mattered to him remained elusive. He had never wanted to be famous, but he knew it was necessary to show off his talents – talents earned recognition and respect, which lead to easier access to the materials and research that were once forbidden to him. It also provided him with many enemies, but the good most definitely outweighed the bad in this instance. Besides, Sherlock enjoyed a little danger, he always had.

Sherlock shut the door of 221B Baker Street behind him and entered the living room. Every spare piece of available floor and wall space was littered with papers upon which equation after equation was written. There was only a small trail of clear space through which he could get to his desk and bed. Empty containers of food were stashed to one side, its remnants left to grow mouldy and rot. It had been months since his apartment was last cleaned, and Mrs Hudson had given up trying to help him in that regard.  
It was dark, but Sherlock felt the presence of someone in his flat. He peered through the inky blackness and noticed a shadowy figure sitting in his favourite armchair.

“You could have at least lit a gas lamp, brother,” Sherlock said.

“I was here when it was light outside, so I’d rather an apology from you for keeping me waiting so long,” replied Mycroft Holmes. “At the library again, I notice?”

Sherlock lit the lamp and brought it over to where his brother was sitting. “You look like you’ve gained weight again. Two pounds by what I can see. You’re in my chair.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock impassively for several seconds. Sherlock stared back, his own face equally expressionless. Eventually, Mycroft sighed. “Are we seriously going to play this game?” he asked.

“You were the one who decided to be childish by sitting in my chair,” he answered. Mycroft sighed again, and with a look of indignation walked to the chair on the opposite side.

“No, wait,” Sherlock said, a little too quickly. “Not there. Sit somewhere else.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft. “So you have been reduced to this, have you?”

“Reduced to what, exactly?” It was difficult to ignore the guarded tone in his voice. The edge to it dared his brother to finish the thought.

“Hmph, nothing,” he replied, and sat on the sofa.

“Why are you here, Mycroft?”

“Can’t I just be concerned for the well-being of my little brother?”

“Since when have you ever taken an interest in my well-being?”

“Since I started hearing rumours of you doing stupid things.” 

“A little dedication to my life’s work is not a bad thing,” he replied. “If anything, I’m better now than I ever was.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Mycroft said bluntly. “Sherlock, what you’re trying to do is illegal.”

“What makes you think I’m doing anything illegal?” he asked. 

Mycroft laughed incredulously. “Come on, do not treat me like all the inferior minds you meet every day. I’ve seen the equations, the transmutation circles. You’re attempting   
human transmutation, aren’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead he played with the fraying ends of his armchair, twisting them through his fingers.

“There’s a reason it’s forbidden, Sherlock. Lestrade would pull you licence straight away if he knew, you’d go to jail for years-“

“But he doesn’t know, does he?” Sherlock interjected sharply. “And you’re not going to tell him so stop trying to convince me otherwise. It’s a challenge, and I’m going to crack it. I can feel it Mycroft; it’s so close. I’m almost there.”

“Nobody has ever done it. People have died in the process. Have you seen what it has done to the alchemists? Have you seen the abominations that have been created? They’re mutilated, broken-“

“Stop it,” Sherlock said. “That’s enough.”

Silence reigned in the apartment, save for a clock that steadily ticked away the seconds. Sherlock went back to playing with the loose threads on the armchair. Mycroft looked away from his brother and down at his hand, hesitant to say what was on his mind, reluctant to address the elephant in the room. The last few months had been unkind to his brother. Sherlock had always had a slender frame but his body had become haggard and gaunt, his cheeks hollow and his complexion ghost-like. The man was working himself to death, all for a useless cause. It had to be said – he had to be told.

“This is not going to bring John back.”

Sherlock stiffened, and his grip tightened almost unperceptively on the arm of the chair. However, Mycroft’s observation skills far exceeded his brother’s, and to him it was a drastic difference.

“You have to get on with your life,” he continued, “not go chasing after an unattainable, heal-all elixir. I mean, if you can’t even let other people sit in his chair-”

“I think you are starting to overstay your welcome, brother,” Sherlock said stiltedly.

“Sherlock-” Mycroft began, but stopped as he realised his brother was no longer open to listening to his rational pleas. “Just think about it,” he said instead. Mycroft rose from the sofa and walked to the door. He turned and took one last look at his brother.

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, noticing that his brother looked as if he had more to say.

“Goodbye, brother. Look after yourself.”

***

Sherlock waited twenty minutes before going upstairs. His room was locked, and locked well; nobody, not even his brother would be able to get in without breaking down the door, and Mycroft was too lazy to use violence. Inside sat another figure, though no reaction crossed his face upon Sherlock’s entrance. He looked straight ahead, his eyes unseeing.

“I’m back, John,” Sherlock said softly, walking over to where his friend sat. He took his hands and lifted him up. The figure responded to Sherlock’s commands automatically but somewhat robotically. Leading John around the room, Sherlock told his friend about his day, all the while working out the kinks and stiffness in John’s muscles from a day of sitting still. Finishing this exercise, Sherlock put his hands behind John’s neck and looked into his eyes. Though they were the exact same beautiful blue he had come to know and trust implicitly, they were soulless, vacant and empty. The laughter that accompanied it, the different ways they would tell Sherlock how he was feeling, all had vanished from them. John was just a homunculus, a doll in this state. There was nothing real there, nothing human.

Helplessness threatened to overcome him as he looked into those eyes, but with a deep breath he composed himself. Just a little more, a little more was all he needed and they could be as they were before. He could do it; he could find the soul. He had to remain strong, because this was his best friend.

“I’ll get you back, John,” he said. “I promise.”


End file.
